Emmett left the prisoner’s mess room directly after the meal, deciding he’d spend the evening writing a letter to Lydia instead of playing cards with the other officers. He crossed the road to the wooden building, nodding to the guard, who unlocked the door and stepped aside to admit him. While he wouldn’t consider them careless, the guards had become much more relaxed over the months as they’d attended their American prisoners. The duty was not difficult. The prisoners offered no resistance. They’d surrendered, given their parole, and in the two months as they’d been detained in two different forts and traveled more than a hundred miles, there had been no escape attempts. Obviously, the harsh terrain gave the captors an extra level of security. Byron was surrounded on three sides by hundreds of miles of snow-covered forests and a partially frozen lake on the other. Even if one did evade the guards, sentries, and pickets, survival would be nearly impossible in the hostile wilderness.
Once Major Tidwell had made the decision to keep the prisoners in Byron until the lake thawed and they could be transported to Halifax by ship, he’d ordered the temporary barracks built. Emmett and the other soldiers were deeply grateful for it. The wooden structures were primitive, but they were a vast improvement over living in a tent.
Emmett had a high regard for Major Tidwell. In the few weeks he’d known the man, he’d found the commander of the Byron way station to be an excellent leader. He was strict but fair. The men in his command respected him, and he treated the prisoners well. Emmett had tried not to stare when he’d noticed the major’s particular gestures or facial expressions that reminded him of the man’s younger sister. Each time, they’d caught Emmett off guard, and he’d been taken aback by how badly he missed her.
He wished he could write to her this evening instead of Lydia and receive a letter in return. Over the long hours, he’d composed hundreds of letters in his mind, thinking of puzzles that she might enjoy involving different chemical compounds, or stories she might find interesting. And he spent an equal amount of time wondering what she might write back to him. Sometimes thinking of her made him smile, or laugh inside, and other times, he felt an ache. Tonight he missed her, wished he knew what she was doing. Had she left Detroit? Was she home alone again in Amherstburg milking Maggie and reading one of her thick volumes about geological phenomena?
Emmett entered through the doorway of his small cell room then froze, his stomach tightening. The evening sun shining through the greased-paper window gave off a soft light. The room contained a desk and chair, a wooden chest, and four cots, and it was upon one of these that Emmett’s gaze was fixated. Specifically on his own bunk, where a black-and-gray bird lay on the blanket, yellow feet curled up and its head twisted at an unnatural angle.
The sight sent a chill over him. He didn’t cringe away from the sight of a dead bird. He’d certainly seen plenty of those, but for it to be placed just so on his bunk was unnerving. And unnerving was a sensation Emmett had become more than familiar with in the months since he’d confronted Lieutenant Sebastian Fox next to the hog’s pen.
He lit the lantern and moved closer. Lieutenant Fox’s harassments were escalating. They’d started out as pranks that were almost childish in nature, such as the evening Emmett had discovered his blanket missing and then found it on the stable roof. The antics had grown into tricks reminiscent of a schoolyard bully. A shove from one of the lieutenant’s underlings as he passed or clumps of snow hitting the back of his head as they’d marched from Detroit. Emmett had ignored these pranks, thinking them not worth his effort, but he had started to become more aware of where Lieutenant Fox and his subordinates were whenever he was out in the drilling yard or moving around the camp.
This, however, was so much more sinister. And it was unsettling to know the lieutenant was aware of where he slept—that he or one of his men had been in the room while Emmett was absent.
He picked up the bird and tossed it outside then returned, checking that none of his other belongings had been tampered with.
He didn’t fear Lieutenant Fox. A person that relied on juvenile tricks to intimidate was a coward. He didn’t think the man would hurt him. But Emmett worried that, true to his word, the lieutenant would hurt a person Emmett cared about. It had been a relief when the militia were paroled and sent home before the prisoners had left Detroit. Now Lieutenant Fox wouldn’t be able to use Barney or Jasper or any of his friends against him. Emmett had distanced himself from the other officers in the camp, not wanting to make any of them targets.
The one moment he’d felt actual fear was when he’d seen the lieutenant walking with Abigail in Fort Detroit. He’d thought it odd that he’d been sent to fetch the prisoner transfer papers precisely at 2:30, but when he came out of the tent and saw the pair, he’d known without a doubt that Lieutenant Fox had planned the encounter. Emmett had turned away, feigning disinterest, but not before he’d seen the triumph in the lieutenant’s eyes at Abigail’s reaction. The meeting was intended as a message. Not only did the lieutenant know a connection existed between the two, but he was reminding Emmett of his promise to harm the people he cared about. Ice-cold terror had poured into Emmett’s gut, and he’d spent the remainder of his time in Fort Detroit terrified the man would follow through on his threat.
Emmett was tempted to return to the mess room with the others. His nerves were tense and he felt on edge, but he was certain this was precisely the sort of response the lieutenant intended. His tactic was intimidation, and Emmett promised himself he wouldn’t allow himself to react. He moved to the small desk and sat with his back to the door, just as he’d have done if an unpleasant message had not been left on his bunk, and composed his letter.
***
Two days later, Emmett’s company was assigned to firewood duty. A satisfying job, Emmett thought. One he’d never actually performed himself until joining the army, but it had become one of his favorites. He liked beginning with a large, seemingly indestructible tree and reducing it to a neat stack of uniform pieces that would fit into the fireplaces and kitchen stoves. Of course, for the wood to produce heat and burn slowly, it would need to be a dense hardwood, and that required more strength to cut to bits. With the amount of lumber needed to keep the camp supplied, wood was chopped year-round and stored in sheds to season before it could be burned, and so the duty was rotated regularly through the companies of prisoners. Spending months in a prison camp made the men restless, and they were glad for any excuse to exercise.
When they gathered at the far end of the camp, Emmett saw that some of the British soldiers who hung about Lieutenant Fox had joined the guards. Instead of showing any recognition, he moved away, making certain his men stood at attention and were ready to march. He watched the soldiers from the corner of his eye, wondering if any of them were the ones who had delivered the bird to his room.
Emmett and his men followed the guards into the forest, arriving in half an hour at the clearing designated for the purpose. Some men were assigned with axes to fell a large oak or maple farther in the woods, and others took their places at chopping blocks, with wedges and mauls to split the seasoned wood into useable sizes and move it into the sheds.
Throughout the day, the duties would rotate. Emmett began at the chopping block, even though as an officer he wasn’t required to do the actual labor. There was something soothing about the repetition. He’d come to understand how different wood split; some, like oak, broke apart in the middle, while maple was easier to slice near the sides. Seeing the stack of logs turn into a stack of firewood was immensely satisfying, as was the physical exertion required while swinging the sledge.
He placed a section of wood onto the chopping block, set his feet in the snow, and swung, feeling the wood split with a gratifying crack. Even with the sounds of axes chopping, men grunting, and wood breaking, the forest felt peaceful, the cold wind refreshing.
After a few hours, the groups rotated. Emmett rolled his shoulders as he walked and opened and closed his blistered hands, knowing he’d be sore for the next few days. He listened to the men, smiling when he realized he didn’t hear any complaining. After months as prisoners, any change to the routine was welcome at this point.
They came to an enormous oak with a trunk so broad three men could reach around it, unable to touch hands. The boughs were thick, twisted, and snow-covered, the missing limbs making it easy to see where the other group had left off stripping the branches from the trunk. Emmett gave orders, sending some of the men high into the tree and others to haul away the downed limbs. Instead of climbing into the tree himself, he stood with the guards, feeling it was more important to make certain none of his men were beneath the heavy branches when they fell.
In the dense forest, the tree had little space around it, and the men had to chop the large branches into smaller parts to drag them away. Between the men chopping, dragging, climbing, and guarding, the area was confusing, and one miscommunication could result in an accident. Emmett stepped as far back as he could, finding a spot where he could see the entire tree and the area beneath.
As he watched the scene, his eyes were drawn to a particularly broad-shouldered soldier. Corporal Reynolds came from a small lumber town in Pennsylvania. Both the British soldiers and the Americans understood the value of the man’s expertise in this type of situation and relied heavily on his advice. Emmett had never seen a person climb a tree as quickly and as sure-footed as the man. The corporal directed others, telling them where to stand while they chopped and what branches to avoid.
At the moment, Corporal Reynolds sat high in the tree, legs wrapped around a branch as he chopped another. When it was near to falling, he called out, and the men beneath him cleared out of the way. He struck a few more sure blows, and the heavy limb crashed down through the branches beneath and hit the ground.
While some of the waiting men began cutting up the large limb, the corporal gave directions to another group about which branch should go next and then moved to a different position. Emmett was so caught up in watching Corporal Reynolds swing from branch to branch that his mind didn’t register the warning shout until after his body reacted. He jumped, rolling out of the way just as a tree crashed to the ground exactly where he’d been standing.
Soldiers from both armies ran toward him, checking to make sure he was unhurt, wondering what had happened, and trying to figure out how the tree had fallen.
Emmett’s heart raced, his mind coming to realize just how close he’d come to being crushed. He assured both the guards and his own frightened-faced men that he was unharmed then joined a group of officers as they studied the breaking point in the horizontal trunk and the ground around it. Hands shaking, he listened as the others attempted to recreate the chain of events.
“Wasn’t an accident. The tree was cut,” Lieutenant Devon said, pointing to the axe marks on the stump.
“By whom?” one of the British officers asked, his face pale and his brows creased in concern. “Did you see anything, Captain Prescott? Hear anything?”
Emmett shook his head. His attention had been focused on the activity in the larger tree. But how had he not heard the sound of an axe? Had the tree been cut nearly through before he arrived and needed only a push to send it over?
Lieutenant Devon brushed snow from Emmett’s arm, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s fortunate you reacted so quickly, Captain. If not for your reflexes . . .” He glanced meaningfully at the place Emmett had been standing. “I’m glad you’re unhurt, sir.”
Emmett left the men to their discussion and sat heavily on a stump. How had he reacted so quickly? He tried to remember the moments before the tree fell. He’d heard something, a warning shout. And now that he was thinking clearly, he realized the voice had sounded like Jasper. Of course . . . He peered around, deeper into the woods.
Impossible.
In the panic of the moment, his mind must have conjured a false memory.
Rubbing his hands over his face, he remembered stories he’d heard of guardian angels. He wasn’t an overly religious man, but in that moment, Emmett bowed his head and offered a prayer of thanks.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the two red-coated soldiers he’d noticed earlier—friends of Lieutenant Fox. They stepped from the forest, looking around as if hoping nobody had been aware of their absence. A flare of rage exploded behind Emmett’s eyes. He rose quickly, startling the men.
“I imagine you’re disappointed,” he said in a loud voice, marching toward them.
The pair looked at each other, fear turning their faces pale, and they hurried toward the guards.
Emmett followed after them, stepping to the side to pass a guard who blocked his path.
The guard put out a hand. “Captain . . .” His voice carried a warning.
The other guards joined him, and Emmett was forced to stop.
“I want those two investigated,” he said. “This was an attempt on my life, and those two men—”
One of the senior British officers put a hand on his sword. “Captain Prescott, we will of course look into this . . . incident . . . but at the moment we have no reason to believe it was any more than an accident.” His expression looked almost bored, which made Emmett furious.
“An accident?” Emmett pointed to the broken stump of the tree. “Did the tree accidentally chop itself with an axe?” His hands were shaking again.
The two officers hurried away, and Emmett moved to follow them.
The guards shifted, blocking him again.
“Captain, I understand you suffered a fright, but an accusation of this nature is very serious,” the officer said.
Emmett opened his mouth to deliver a scathing response, but a tug on his arm stopped him.
“Come, Captain,” Lieutenant Devon said. He turned to the British officer. “Sir, if I may return Captain Prescott to the barracks? He should rest himself.” The tug became stronger, jerking Emmett backwards.
The officer sniffed. “Yes, yes. See that he does.”
Emmett planted his feet, ready to object, but another of his men grabbed on to his other arm, and his soles slid in the snow as the two pulled him away.
“Beg your pardon, Captain, but ’twon’t do any good to argue,” Lieutenant Devon said in a low voice. “And we’d rather you didn’t hang, sir.”
Emmett knew the man was right, but that did little to ease his anger. He stormed through the forest, the other two and a British guard walking quickly to keep up.
When they crossed the tree line, they came upon the two men who had fled, accompanied by a group of guards and Lieutenant Fox.
Emmett’s insides flared with heat. He stopped, breathing hard and clenching his fists. The men with him each took an arm and tried to continue forward, but Emmett remained rooted to the spot.
“Captain!” Lieutenant Fox called in a cheerful voice. He and his friends strode forward. “I didn’t expect to see you, sir.” His brow lifted and a smirk twisted his lips.
“I wager you didn’t, Lieutenant.” Emmett lifted his chin and fought to keep his voice steady. He would not give the lieutenant the satisfaction of seeing any emotion.
Lieutenant Fox inclined his head and indicated for Emmett to walk beside him. “I am delighted to find you unharmed after your mishap.”
“I doubt that is true.” Emmett kept walking. His entire concentration was focused on restraint, keeping his emotions under control. Once he was in his room, he’d be able to think through the situation calmly. Come up with a strategy. Until today, he’d thought the lieutenant’s torments to be mostly harmless, but now he realized something had to be done. He had to act, or he would die, and he refused to be killed by a pretentious monster in a prison camp.
“It is true, in light of recent events.” The lieutenant’s voice sounded almost giddy, which was unsettling. He walked next to Emmett, swinging his arms and smiling as if the two were out for a friendly stroll. “I have splendid news that simply could not wait,” he said.
Something in his voice sent a chill over Emmett’s skin. In spite of his plan to ignore the man’s goading, he couldn’t help but look at him.
Lieutenant Fox’s face spread into an enormous smile, but his eyes were hard, cunning. “I’ve just now discovered that Miss Abigail Tidwell has come to Byron to visit her brother.”